Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

A Joke's A Very Serious Thing.

Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can Blow.

England A Fortune-telling Host, As Num'rous As The Stars, Could Boast; Matrons, Who Toss The Cup, And See The Grounds Of Fate In Grounds Of Tea.

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?